Thief
by Lucifina666
Summary: Once a professional thief, after a terrifying encounter of the worst kind, Anastasia is reborn. With a new thirst for blood, she must try to live amongst the living...or pay the ultimate price. And she must learn to sate other thirsts as well...
1. Chapter 1

It is dark, I note, as I casually open the door of my home and quietly slip out. The darkness does not deter me, for I have never been particularly been afraid of the darkness, not even when I was a very small child.

Nevertheless, as a car screams a couple of blocks away, there is something different about tonight that makes me shiver. What it is, exactly, I do not know, and I do not particularly wish to find out. I should not be afraid; the city feels exactly the same as it did the night before, and the night before that. But still, something unsettles me.

My name is Anastasia, and I am twenty-two years old. I am not a local here in Forks; I came from Australia, five years ago, when I was barely out of school and was almost discovered and sent to jail for my crimes.

Yes, I admit it, I am something of a criminal in Australia, which is why I moved to Forks, to start my life over; I have forged documents that identify me as Natalie Price, a harmless woman who works at the local supermarket and pays her bills every month, so I go mostly unnoticed here in Forks. Yet my reputation precedes me, even in America, so I often get a number of people asking me to get them certain items that you wouldn't be able to get anywhere else but the bedside of the Prime Minister, for example.

Yes, I am a thief. I steal valuable objects from high-ranking people and sell them through the black market, which is why I can pay my bills every month and still afford to survive. I don't really have a job, at least a proper, legal, job.

What started as a disorder is now my life. I steal for a living.

But I do not regret it. I am richer than most people in the country, and I can have almost anything I want.

But still, I have to be careful. There are many people in this world who wish me dead and would gladly put a few bullets in my brain to silence both me and my obsession, my job, my life. I have stolen from many, many people; from little old ladies who had millions of dollars hidden in their wardrobe, to the leader of the SWAT team, who had information on my whereabouts.

I am extremely proud of that last one; I managed to swipe the documents and burn them, in the safety of a nearby forest. All in one night too. If anyone found out what my real name was, and where I was living, I would be in real danger.

So I live my life on the fringe to avoid being noticed. I live alone; I have not had any time for romance at all in this chaotic life. But I do not mind. If I am alone, there is only myself to look out for; if I had a tagalong, I would be forever making sure they didn't leave any obvious tracks, or else just making sure none of my enemies shot them down in a moment of anger and hate.

I carry a gun in my left coat pocket, and a switchblade in the other. I am prepared; no-one is going to get Natalie Price tonight.

I have a job to do.

I grip my switchblade tightly, as I stealthily shut the door and creep down the street, making no noise. Yet I am still not comforted; something is still not quite right tonight. It feels like I am being watched. Bearing this in mind, I start to run down the sidewalk, my sneakers making no noise, as they lightly slap against the pavement. If someone is indeed watching me and preparing to attack, I would rather fight somewhere isolated, where no-one will hear my attackers' screams of pain, as I fill their body with bullets.

I reach an intersection; I flinch, expecting spotlights to light me up like a torch, but there are none. I am lucky. I cut across the intersection and decide, on the spot, to go to the dump. The smell of rotting garbage will hide the scent of a rotting body, and by morning, it will be crushed into neat little cubes, just like the rest of the garbage. How do I know this? I have killed there before, and still no-one has found the man's body yet.

I suppose I am not just a thief; I am a murderer too, it seems. But I do not kill aimlessly. I only kill those who are close to exposing who I really am. I do not trust them to simply remain silent, as they have told me they would do, as soon as I were to leave them alone, they would go to the police, and I would be ruined. I could never let that happen.

My brown hair flows out behind me, as I run in the direction of the dump site. I curse inwardly; my hair was supposed to remain under my cap, so that if I were to be seen, I wouldn't be recognized as Natalie Price. My blue eyes are hidden behind a thick pair of sunglasses that cover almost half of my face. I look like a fly but I do not care. I wear all black. Even my sneakers are black, black converse sneakers I stole from the mall.

There is a sudden sound from behind me.

I spin around, yanking my switchblade out of my pocket as I do so. "Who's there?" I shout into the darkness. There is no answer. "Who's there?" I shout again, but not as loudly, for I believe there is no-one there.

Perhaps I am paranoid as well as a kleptomaniac.

No-one appears. I shrug and turn back around, still gripping my weapon tightly; it may be a trap. Still, nothing. Slightly annoyed, I continued on, still heading for the dump, just in case.

No-one follows me to the dump, I am quite sure of that. But still, I am nervous, and when I knock over a trashcan, I jump and let out a loud shriek. I curse quietly afterwards; I am supposed to be stealthy. Sighing, I slip my blade back inside my pocket; the night is already wasted.

**XxX**

"I am sorry, but I was...unable to get it last night," I say tightly into the phone. I am back in my tiny, boring Forks house. The man on the other end shouts and swears quite a bit at me for awhile. Soon enough, though, I get quite tired of it and blurt it out: "Someone was following me last night."

The man is quiet. He thinks I have been caught, I am sure of it. "I wasn't caught," I say softly, reassuringly. There is silence on the other end. Perhaps he thinks it is a joke. "I am not joking," I tell him a minute later, to see if that is what he is thinking.

"You'd better not be," he finally says, a dangerous note in his voice. I sneer, even though he cannot see it.

"Or what?" I ask. "You'll turn me in to the police?"

The thing is, I know he cannot do that. He is also in the black market, selling weapons, such as very illegal throwing stars, swords, axes, even a few spears.

There is nothing he can do that I am afraid of.

Because, if he tries to turn me in, I can sell him out and not get in an ounce of trouble.

You see, I nearly always get my way. Very rarely can people refuse me, with my seductive voice and good looks. I once bought off a car salesman who'd seen me depositing a body in the back seat of one of his convertibles. I paid him exactly one million dollars to keep quiet and to park the car at the bottom of the lake. I said that if he survived driving the car into the lake, I would pay him another million dollars.

And so I did.

But he was planning to go to the police, I knew, so, when he was on his way to the police station, I delayed his journey. That man never made it to the police, and the police never found out about his death.

The man is silent. He knows I have him.

"Damn," he swears angrily. I smile.

"I am not stupid, Mr. Parkes. I know how to set things up. There was interference last night. I will get you the papers tonight. You will meet me in the local park. Then you will pay me."

"Which park, Natalie?"

I consider for a minute. "I think you know, Mr. Parkes. I will see you there at seven. " I hang up. Now I have a time limit to obtain those papers. I must get them, in full daylight, if I am to meet Mr. Parkes at seven tonight. I glance at my watch. It is already twelve.

I must hurry.

I slip a black hoodie over my jeans. I once again put the fly sunglasses on, and I pull my hood up. I rush out my front door, eager to get this whole thing over and done with- Parkes isn't the loveliest person out there. "Oh, hello, Natalie," Mr. Weber says cheerily. He is hosing his car, obviously washing it.

"Hello," I say somewhat vaguely, giving a shy little wave. Mr. Weber goes back to hosing his car down. He is used to my bizarre outfits and my quietness. I make my way down the street, intending to steal a portion of the money that Chief Swan has saved up. The man doesn't trust bankers, so he (smartly) hides it under his mattress. It is not much, mainly saved up for his daughter, Isabella, for college. Not that he has to worry about that.

Apparently, the girl has had a child and will not be attending college anytime soon. I do not like taking Chief Swans' money. He has been very kind to me, but still, I must take it. Until Parkes pays me again, I am pretty much broke, and I NEED money to hail a taxi to get to the papers that Parkes needs.

So I wait until the chief of police is safely out of his house, until I start searching for the keys. He leaves Isabella's unneeded house keys under the welcome mat. I unlock the front door quickly and dart inside.

The Chiefs' room is upstairs.

I hurry up the stairs and find his room. I dig around under his mattress for about fifteen minutes before I strike gold. There it is, twenty thousand dollars, stuck under Charlie Swans' mattress. I almost laugh at how easy it is to steal in Forks. It is a small town, and most people in small towns are relatively stupid. It's enough for me to go to Seattle and back. And thankfully, it's not so much that Chief Swan will notice. When you have twenty grand in hundred dollar notes, one hardly misses two.

I doubt he will notice; even if he does, who is he going to convict? Harmless Natalie Price who works at the supermarket?

I do not think so.

I slip the two hundreds in my pocket with the switchblade and carefully lower Charlie's mattress back down; I had heaved it against the window when I was searching for his money. I dart back downstairs, my hand shoved in my pocket, clutching both my switchblade and the money.

I pause in the living room, and stare at some of the photos that line the walls. One is of a young girl, with chalky pale skin, bright brown eyes, and long brown hair. She was holding a small child, roughly the size of a loaf of bread. The child had curly brown hair. I could not see any more of it, because it was wrapped in a blanket. A man stood next to the girl and the child. He was lanky, had identical pallid skin to the girl, and had untidy, bronze-coloured hair. The three of them were standing close to each other; they were obviously a family. I saw pictures like this all the time, but this picture was slightly different than the others.

Why? Because all three of them were extraordinarily beautiful.

It was somewhat eerie, really. I knew I was not ugly, but, just by looking at this photograph, I certainly felt it. Was it possible for these people to be that beautiful? It looked...somewhat inhuman, like they weren't real. Like they were painted by an old master with a careful hand. They had the faces of angels.

Almost as if they were from heaven itself.

I looked at that photo, and then I glanced at another. There was that beautiful girl again, this time with a boy I recognised as Jacob Black. "I know who you are," I tell the photo grimly. "You're Isabella Swan." I put the photo back. I do not wish to look at the beautiful girl any longer.

Then I remember. "You're not Isabella Swan. You're Isabella Cullen."

Yes, that was right. Isabella married that Edward Cullen, yet another stunningly beautiful person. And they had had a child. I hadn't seen her face, nor did I know her name, but I knew she must be as beautiful as her parents.

I close Chief Swan's front door, lock it, and slip the keys back under the house mat. Even though I stopped to look at the photos, I only took about half an hour. That is pretty good for me. Whistling cheerily, I wander down the sidewalk, intending to go down to the Lodge, a diner. The reason I wanted to go was because I needed to exchange one of my hundreds for change, and then I could call for a taxi and get out of Forks, at least for the present.

"Hello," I call out merrily to the owner of the Lodge.

"Why, hello there, Natalie," the owner says, smiling at me. I do not know her that well, only that she was once married to a man called Waylon, who got attacked by some kind of animal a few years ago. She had a kind face and a personality to match. I quite liked her and was one of the few people I had never stolen from-the Cullen family also belonged here. "What can I get you?" the owner asks now, taking out a notepad and pencil. I smile at her.

"I feel special, getting served by the owner of the Lodge."

The owner smiles. I have said the right thing. "Well, now, you are a lovely girl, Natalie. I quite enjoy talking to you."

I do not point out the fact that I am twenty-two years old, which makes me a woman, not a girl. It is a common mistake. I look, after all, only about eighteen, nineteen at most. "And I enjoy talking to you," I tell her now. "But I am afraid I will not be eating today."

"Oh?" a puzzled smile appears on the other woman's face.

"My father gave me a hundred dollar note," I say, pulling one out of my pocket. "And I need to call a taxi so I can go shopping in Seattle. But I do not wish to hand the driver a hundred dollar note. He may not give it back. It has happened before. So I was wondering if you could possibly give me some change?"

Like I said before, I nearly always get what I want.

The woman smiles. "Of course, dear," she says. "Will that be in fives, tens, or fifties?"

Hmm. Better get tens. "Tens, please," I tell her. She smiles and counts out ten dollar notes. She hands ten back to me and I pocket them gratefully. I thank her and leave the diner. I hail a taxi and tell him to take me to Seattle. "Not until you pay me, Miss," he grunts at me. I instantly have my switchblade out and positioned at his neck. The man is scared and he starts whimpering. "I will pay you," I tell him, "when I arrive in Seattle." The man agrees, naturally.

When I arrive in Seattle, I do indeed pay the taxi driver; I also give him a tip with the promise that he keeps quiet about the switchblade. I do not have time to waste killing this man. The man leaves me in a somewhat happier mood and a somewhat heavier wallet, a hundred and ninety dollars heavier, in fact.

These papers that Parkes wanted me to steal for him?

I know exactly where they are, and this time, there will be no interference. I WILL get the papers, and I WILL get my reward.

Any man who dares to try and stand in my way will be a dead man.

I have a switchblade and a handgun.


	2. Chapter 2

I have never been to Seattle before. As soon as I step out of the taxi, I knew I liked it.

It beats Forks any day.

Even though I have never been here before, I am confident that I will not get lost. Parkes gave me some written instructions, you see, and a map of Seattle.

I take this map out of my pocket and study it. The taxi driver has left me on Krause Street; I must go north until I find a place called 'Roxannes'. It is a cafe, rather dull, it sounds. But it is not the cafe that Parkes wishes me to find his documents.

It is the upstairs room where his papers are hidden.

Parkes warns me in his hastily scrawled note that there are a number of security guards on duty at this time; apparently the cafe has been broken into before. Also, according to Parkes, there are several security cameras and even a guard dog out the back.

I smile grimly. No amount of security will keep me out. If I must, I will smash the cameras and fill the guards' bodies with bullets, perhaps even the dog as well.

I do not like that last part. I do not like killing animals, especially if they have not done anything to me.

But this job is important. I must not be weak, or else I will be caught.

I had thought Roxannes' would be hard to find, but it is not. It sticks out like a sore thumb, with its lurid bright green walls and hot pink trim. I shudder delicately. This Roxanne, whoever she is, has got no taste when it comes to colour. The colour, however, does not seem to deter customers; the cafe is nearly full of chattering, eager people.

Roxanne must be a good cook.

I push open the front door; the bell at the top gives a merry little tingle as I step inside. The inside is almost as bad as the outside; it is green and pink in here as well. The walls are green, the tables are pink, and the chairs are a mixture of both. I nearly gag at the sight. It is overwhelming, so much so that I start to feel dizzy. Roxanne turns out to be a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, with hair like fire. It seems to float away from her head, and towards the (green) ceiling. She is wearing a light pink minidress and orange roller skates.

I frown. I thought all this was over. That it went out of fashion years and years ago.

"It's overwhelming, isn't it?" Someone whispers in my ear. I jump, startled. The speaker is a young man of about twenty, with floppy blonde hair.

I smile at him. "Yes, it is," I say.

The man grins back at me, his eyes straying down to check out my body. I am used to people checking me out; until I get married, it will continue to be this way. I do not wish to get married, however; I enjoy being by myself. "Roxanne loved the seventies," he says now, dragging his eyes back up to my face.

I pull my fly sunglasses off and give him my full attention. "I can tell," I note, glancing once more at the disgusting walls and rolling my eyes.

The man seems a little offended. "Hey, it's not that bad," he says, a note of hurt in his voice. I snap my eyes back to his.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I did not realise that you like this sort of thing."

I am in a hurry to put my sunglasses back on. I have spotted the security camera; it is positioned above Roxannes' head, her flyaway hair nearly obscuring its vision.

The man follows my gaze. "It's not on," he tells me, eyeing me suspiciously now.

"Oh, I know," I reassure him, now looking out through the darkened plastic, "I just saw my reflection in the camera lens and I look dreadful."

"No, you don't!" the man exclaims.

I smile at him. "Why, thank you, sir."

"Call me Bryce," he says shyly. I notice his eyes are the oddest colour-they are a strange shade of violet. Bryce seems to notice and looks away.

I glance at the tacky clock perched above an equally tacky set of table and chairs. It is now half past one.

I now only have five and a half hours before I must meet Parkes.

"I am sorry, but I must talk to Roxanne now," I tell Bryce.

"Oh...okay," he mumbles, still not looking up at me. "...Bye."

"Goodbye," I say. I hurry away from Bryce and march up to Roxanne. "Excuse me," I say politely. I cannot falter here. It is clear that Roxanne is the owner of this building. I need her help to get upstairs without arousing the suspicions of the security guards and Bryce. I do not trust Bryce enough to know whether he is lying about the camera or not; I made a stupid error when I took off my fly sunglasses.

Roxanne looks at me with bright green eyes and a surprised expression. "Yes?" she asks, a snooty tone in her voice.

I smile angelically. "Please, I was wondering if you could come upstairs with me. I'm the new worker here, and someone told me the uniforms are upstairs. But the security guard doesn't believe me and he won't let me in."

Roxanne is cautious. "Are you Cynthia Kraus?" she asks.

I nod vigorously. "Okay," Roxanne sighs. "I'll take my break now and help you find your uniform." She throws a rag down on the counter, looking annoyed, as if she had been interrupted while doing something terribly important, instead of just wiping a few glasses. She skates around the counter, taps another waitress on the shoulder, tells her that she's taking her break, and then takes my wrist in a painful grip. I almost cry out in pain and start to pull away, but the look in her eyes is dangerous.

I do not like it. I may have to kill her when we are upstairs. I have a silencer on my handgun, so there will be no noise when I end her life.

She pulls me toward Bryce and a sour-looking security guard. "This is Cynthia Kraus," she tells him. "She needs to get her uniform. " The guard starts to get up from his pink chair, but Roxanne lays a hand on his shoulder and insists she'll take care of it. The guard sighs loudly but allows Roxanne to pull me upstairs.

As I leave, I notice Bryce is still watching me curiously with those strange eyes of his.

The stairs are narrow and rickety, and more than once I must grip Roxanne so I do not fall. "Watch it," she snarls the second time I do this.

"Well, perhaps you should get a wider staircase," I hiss back. "Did you ever think of that?"

Roxanne does not reply. Once we reach the top of the stairs, she flings me away from her, as though I was something smelly. The room upstairs couldn't look more different to the one below. It was plain, boring, with one dusty window. Spider webs hung over everything. There were piles upon piles of musty boxes strewed everywhere. There was a three-legged table in the middle of the room, with what look like a rusty birdcage atop it. The bird was long dead-only its skeleton remained. And, to my delight, there were several bulky cabinets, just as Parkes said. One of them must have his documents in them.

Roxanne gives me a heavy push. To her surprise, I do not move. I sidestep her next lunge and casually shut the door, pulling my silenced handgun out as well. "Do not move," I say in a bold voice. "If you move, I will shoot."

For the first time since we met, Roxanne is not so angry this time. She appears frightened. "You're not Cynthia, are you?"

I sneer at her. "No. I am not."

"What do you want?" she cries.

I bump the barrel of the gun against her temple. "Some documents."

"I don't know what you are talking about," she insists. I pull the trigger on the gun, but it does not hurt her. I yank it to the side at the last second, so the bullet misses, but just barely. Roxanne begins to weep. "They're in those cabinets," she sobs.

"I am not looking for any old documents," I tell her. "There are certain ones concerning my friend Mr. Parkes. I know you know where they are, so you might want to tell me where they are, before I decide I will not miss the next time I shoot."

"P-Parkes?" Roxanne whimpers. "I do not know the name."

"You do not want to lie to me." I spit in her face. She flinches but does not dare to wipe it away.

"That one!" she cries, pointing with a shaking finger at the cabinet closest to us. That is good; I can keep an eye on Roxanne while I look for Parkes' documents. "Thank you," I say, smiling sweetly. Then I pull the trigger, and this time, I do not miss. Roxannes' brains splatter the door, and blood splashes on the floor, reaching my shoes and soaking through them, down to my socks. I take a step back; I do not wish to leave tracks. Perhaps I will have to take my shoes off before I leave this place.

No, better yet, burn them.

No, I think grimly, I will not burn down this restaurant and kill all those people, just to be rid of my evidence. I will keep them on, and everyone shall live. Except Roxanne, of course. I walk over to the cabinet Roxanne pointed to.

Hopefully she did not lie to me. Otherwise, I may be late for Parkes. I yank open the cabinet drawer. What I see makes me groan. There are hundreds of papers in here, and they are not categorised in any way. I plunge my hand inside the mess of papers and start pulling them out at random. Williams, Bruno, Perne, Petrie, Amorosi, Parker, Parkes...

"_Yes!" _I shout happily. I believe I have found it.

The paper is quite detailed, with information on almost everything Mr. Parkes has been doing for the last twenty years. Some of it is quite shocking, such as hiring several prostitutes for a 'fun' party, but most of it is quite boring. Parkes seems to have quit with the pole dancers and such about fifteen years ago. I can see why he wanted it. Aside from Mr. Parkes sex life, there was information that I could tell had been withheld from the police-such as murdering his wife and three children one night while he was drunk. Quite possibly the wisest decision is to burn these papers. That would be the wise thing to do. So even if someone blabs, they cannot prove anything. I wonder how much money I will get for this?

A dog barks nearby.

I freeze. The dog has smelled Roxanne's blood, I am sure. It is alarmed. If it keeps barking, someone will surely notice, and then, I will be caught.

I cannot let that happen.

Stuffing the papers in my pocket, I stride over to the window and peer outside. It is a large Rottweiler, and it is indeed alarmed. It is leaping up at the building desperately, its eyes rolling madly, its tongue lolling out from its mouth, dripping with slobber.

Yes. I must kill the dog if I am to escape here. I open the window, and a cool breeze rushes against my face. It is heaven; it had been extremely stuffy inside the tacky cafe. The dog stops jumping and starts snarling angrily at me; it knows I am the cause of death here. I position the gun carefully, and aim between the brutes' eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut as I pull the trigger. There is a piercing yelp, and then...silence.

I open my eyes and grimace at the mess I had made. The dog is dead; there is no doubt about that. But I wish I had not killed it. But I know, in my heart, that if I had not, I would be the one dead. I had a friend once who was killed by a Rottweiler. Her face was chewed to pieces, and the mongrel had eaten part of her arm and leg. I had to shoot that dog, too.

Shooting animals does not make me happy.

I heave myself through the window with great difficulty; I am by no means fat, but this window was extremely small. But, luckily, I am quite flexible and so I manage. I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I drop to the ground; it is a two-storey building, remember, and when I land, my foot twists underneath me and I crumple to the ground. "Damn," I curse, sitting up and massaging my foot; it has only been sprained, not broken. But I will have to be careful from now on, to stop my foot from being damaged any further.

The day is growing darker, I note, as I lurch to my feet, ignoring the screaming protests of my foot. Grimacing, I hobble out onto the main street. A car narrowly dodges me, as I try and cross the road. An elderly man screams obscenities at me as I flop back on the sidewalk. Across the road was the easiest way to the park I was meant to meet Parkes at. But, since I am crippled, I suppose I will find another way.

I have come too far to give up now.

So I start off down the sidewalk, keeping my head down, limping painfully.

It takes me a long time to reach an intersection. Cars are roaring past, too fast for me to hobble along to the park on the other side. I sigh. I will not get there in time. I know this. I glance once more at my watch. It is six fifty-nine. One more minute. Already I can see Parkes, waiting nervously beside the small pond in the middle of the park. A number of ducks are waddling into the undergrowth on the deeper side of the pond, getting ready to rest for the night. Again and again, I try and cross the road, but to no avail. I cannot cross it, not with this dicky foot. I collapse at the foot of a gutter, my face in my hands. My sunglasses slip off and fall into the storm water drain. I do not care. I have failed Parkes, and myself.

I knew I could do this.

How long I sit there, I do not know. It begins to rain while I sit there, my twisted foot stuck out bizarrely in front of me. The rain is icy-cold and it soon soaks me through. The blood from my shoes and socks washes out and turns the storm water pink. I watch it with defeated eyes. At least one good thing became of my crippled foot: The evidence is flowing away, into the storm water drain.

No-one will never know I was the one who killed Roxanne. I can still see Parkes. He has his briefcase held over his head, glancing worriedly around for me. I wave furiously at him, to try and catch his attention, but he doesn't see me through the rush of cars. I try shouting at him, but he cannot hear me above the roar of car engines and the thundering rain.

He stands there for another minute, then, throwing his briefcase down on the sodden ground, he storms out of the park and runs up the other side of the road. I watch him for a moment, but then he is lost behind a bus. By the time the bus has passed, he has gone.

I put my face in my hands. I have failed him. Dozens of people walk past, but not one of them offers any assistance. I do not care.

I do not need help.

"Hey, you okay?"

I peek through my fingers at who is speaking to me. It is a man of about thirty, with fraying hair. What colour it is, I do not know, for the rain has plastered it to his head and is so dark it could be any colour-except blonde.

"I am fine, thank you," I say stiffly.

The man is wearing a black and gold hoodie and jeans so baggy, it's a wonder they do not fall off him right then and there. The man is wearing a kind smile. "It's okay, sugar. I know your foot hurts."

"How did you know about that?" I ask him, still speaking through my fingers.

"It's not hard to see," he says kindly. "You have your leg stuck out in front of you. It must hurt a lot for a girl as cute as you to not be able to stand up." He is a gentleman. Perhaps I will accept his help.

"Please help me up," I say, removing my hands from my face and holding them out for him to grab.

"Sure thing, sugar," he says, taking my hands and pulling me up. He is strong. And his hands are rough. I do not like them. They remind me of murderers.

"Thank you," I say sweetly, yanking them out of his grip and starting down the sidewalk. The man's hand lashes out and grabs the back of my hoodie. "Get your hands off me," I spit.

"Now, don't be like that, sugar," the man croons. His other hand slides into one of my pockets. "What do we have here?" he asks. I reach for him, to perhaps break that terribly large nose of his, but I cannot reach. He finds the documents, the ten dollars, and my switchblade.

The papers he drops in the storm water. He pockets the money and the switchblade.

"Give those back!" I scream, kicking out wildly; I do not get him though. He laughs softly and searches my other pocket. He finds the hand gun. I expect him to pocket this, too, but he does not. He throws it in the gutter and it is swept into the drain. "No!" I shout, struggling madly.

"What's a cute babe like you doing with a gun and a knife, huh?" he asks me now, throwing me back on the ground. My ankle shatters upon impact; I let out a terrible scream of agony.

"So I can kill assholes like you," I say. The man thinks I am funny. He laughs like a hyena and slaps his leg as he does so.

"Do you think you can kill me, babe?" he asks. "You ain't got any of your party poppers anymore, sugar. Seems to me like you aren't going to be killing anyone. You're helpless."

I consider. He is right; of course, I am helpless, without my weapons and my ankle shattered into a million pieces. "Maybe you're right," I say.

"Damn right I am," he says. He steps closer to me; I can smell alcohol and cigarettes on him. He is drunk, very much so.

For the first time in five years, I am afraid. I cannot do anything to him, and I am afraid that I may die. I used to think of myself as invincible, when I had my weapons with me, but now that I do not have them, I am afraid.

"No," I whisper. The man's expression hardens, and he kicks me in the face. My nose breaks, the blood fills up my mouth, and I spit it out, whimpering in pain. He kicks me again, this time in the stomach. I bring up my breakfast, and it goes all over his shoes. He yells in disgust and keeps kicking me. I feel my ribs shatter beneath his foot; one of them, I am sure, pierces my lung. I gasp, and it is pure agony, feeling my rib in my lung, feeling my blood leak into my lungs, and it is getting hard to breathe. Blood bubbles up, over my lips, and dribbles down my front.

"You don't go sayin' no to me, honey," the man says, grinning. He grabs my left arm and twists-it breaks into two pieces, and fresh blood is spilt; the second half has pierced the skin, and is poking out, covered in blood and strands of muscle. I scream and scream, but no-one seems to hear; even I can barely hear myself anymore.

All I can hear is the man's laughter, as he gloats over my broken body. I try and take a breath; my throat fills with blood instead, and I end up choking on it. I cannot believe I am going to die here.

The man has something silvery in his fist; I realise, with horror, that it is my switchblade.

He plunges it down into my right thigh. The blade goes through cleanly, and the tip comes out red and dripping on the other side. I try and scream, but I cannot. Not anymore. All that happens is that blood fills my throat, my mouth, and I gag on it.

"Hey-leave her alone!" The voice of an angel cries out.

I see dimly that another man has joined the fray. I brace myself, waiting for more pain. But there is none. All I see is a tall, lanky figure grab the man's head and twist it. I hear all the bones in his neck break, and he slumps down, dead. My saviour drops his body, and kicks it away, disgusted. The he kneels next to me.

"Anastasia," he whispers. I struggle to focus on him. He has blonde hair, which is plastered to his head. His eyes glow in the darkness. They are crimson. I scream through the blood. "Ssh, you're okay, its okay now," he whispers, taking my head in his hands. "I dealt with that filth."

I have heard this man's voice before, I am sure of it. But how did he know my name? I have never told anyone, and the people I did tell are dead. I had to kill them. No-one must know my true name. No-one.

"Who...?" I choke out, more and more blood dribbling down my front. This seems to unsettle the man.

He draws back slightly. "It's me," he whispers, and now I know who he is.

It's Bryce.

"Br..."that is as far as I get before blood fills my mouth again.

"Ssh..." he says, laying a finger on my lips. "I can save you, Anastasia. Do you want to live?" His question puzzles me. Of course I want to live. I nod. "Okay," he says. "I will save you."

And, just as my vision fails me, I felt him press his lips to my neck.


	3. Chapter 3

For a moment, it feels as if he is kissing me.

But that is not the case. He _bites _into me.

I scream in agony, and then promptly choke on my blood. Bryce's teeth dig further into my neck, sinking through flesh and muscle.

It feels as if I am being torn open. I howl in agony, as Bryce's teeth continue down, sinking deeper and deeper every second. I shriek at him to stop; and he does.

It seems to pain him, though, judging by how he gasps and shudders before me.

I cannot _see _him shuddering, but I can feel it. I try and say his name, to see if he is alright, but, once more, he places an icy-cold finger on my lips.

"I am sorry," he says softly. "I know you are in pain, and I know you will suffer more. A lot more, at least until my venom entirely consumes you."

I am in shock. I thought that Bryce wished to save me, not torture me.

"But it will get better," he reassures me, patting my leg gently. "Your wounds will heal, and together, we will walk together as vampires."

So that is what he is. That explains the crimson eyes.

The pain takes over. I open my mouth and begin to scream through my mouthful of blood.

**XxX**

Time passes.

Whether it is a minute, ten, or an hour, I cannot tell. Fire is licking the inside of my neck, hot, dangerously hot. It seems to burn away at my flesh, my muscle, my bone.

I am screaming, and Bryce sits beside me, apologizing every time I scream. I find his icy hand, and grip it tightly with my own burning one. He does not jerk away; he squeezes my fingers gently. Still, he apologizes. The fire has finished with my neck; now it moves down to my arms, which slowly start to burn from the inside. I shriek and, despite the broken state the mugger left me in, I flail around weakly, trying desperately to put the fire out. It does not work. I shout in frustration and my whole body shudders, as the fire progresses.

**XxX**

I open my eyes, sometime later, and am in shock.

My body is completely healed.

All my broken bones have mended. My nose is straight and perfect once again.

I sit up, and I marvel at how I can see every speck of dust that floats in the air, and every sound I can hear within a twenty-mile radius. I hear a twig snap a kilometre away. I hear a cricket launch itself off the ground two miles away.

A nervous laugh rises in my throat; I let it out and nearly gasp in shock. My laugh sounds like wind chimes.

It is beautiful.

Bryce is smiling beside me. "You are beautiful," he tells me, stroking my cheek gently.

"Am I like you?" I ask. I hadn't noticed it before, but Bryce was gorgeous. Crimson eyes aside, his face was perfect; like an angel.

Bryce nods.

I do not know what to say to that. I stand up. Bryce does as well. "Let's go," he says, taking my hand in his; his hand no longer feels icy-cold, and mine does not feel like it is on fire. Our hands feel the same.

_We_ are the same.

**XxX**

He leads me to an abandoned parking lot; it has long been out of use. Bryce sits me down and tells me to wait. He assures me that we won't be more than five minutes.

When he leaves, I do as he says and sit on the ground, but I am troubled. The fire has not left me entirely. It is still in my throat. The fire burns harshly, and it does not let up. If anything, it gets worse. I grip my throat with one hand and groan. Bryce made a mistake. I am still turning into a vampire.

"No," I whisper. "This cannot be. Bryce said I was finished."

There is a large puddle nearby. It is filled with beer cans and chip packets, as well as several cigarette butts. Ignoring Bryce's request, I crawl over to it, eager to see what I look like now. Did I have crimson eyes, like him?

I peer into the litter-filled puddle, and let out another gasp. That dark-haired beauty could _not _possibly be me.

She had the face of an angel, her dark hair resting just below her delicate-looking shoulders. Her hair was a tangled mess, but she still looked beautiful. Her skin was chalky pale and slightly translucent-looking, but it did not look unhealthy. It seemed to glow with a radiance no human could ever achieve. The only thing that was out of place was her, no, _my, _eyes. There were not as dull as Bryce's, but they were a violent red, and they seemed to glow. They were beautiful, just like the rest of me, but there was something terrible and dangerous about them as well. Like a demon who looked just like an angel, but there was a flaw in its disguise; its terrible, evil eyes.

"I was right, you know. You are beautiful."

Bryce is back.

If I was still human, I would have been startled, but I am not. I may look human, but I am not. I know that much.

I feel the strength in my body, a hundred times more powerful than the strongest human. I feel the fire raging inside my throat; no human has that happen to them. I see my ruby-coloured eyes; and that is just more proof that I am not human. "Thank you," I say graciously, my voice sounding like singing.

Bryce smiles. "I'm only telling it how it is," he says. "But, then again, no vampire is ugly."

If Bryce and I are anything to go by, I believe him. I cannot imagine an ugly vampire. "Anyway," Bryce continues, "I have something that may help ease the pain in your throat."

"You know about that?" I ask.

Bryce smiles as if he is speaking to a dim-witted child. "Every vampire is like that, Anastasia," he tells me. "That is just the way it is."

I do not question him. He saved my life; I am going to give him as much respect as I can possibly muster. It is not much, I know, for I have never had to answer to anyone.

It turns out Bryce's present is a human girl, of about fourteen years of age. She is unconscious.

Bryce places her in front of me and tells me to drink from her.

"I do not understand,' I say, staring at the girl with wide eyes. How am I supposed to drink from a human?

Bryce explains to me that I must drink her blood, if I want the fire to subside. I do want the fire gone, so I raise a pale finger and open up her jugular vein. I know where it is because I studied the human body a few years ago. It is another lifetime ago, though, and I find, as I press my lips to her neck, that I cannot remember doing the studying. I remember what I have learnt; but I do not remember learning it.

The girl's blood flows into my mouth, hot and salty. The fire is doused almost at once; I feel much better. I suck away at the girls' neck, and as I do, I feel her life slowly drain away from her body.

She is dying.

As she takes her last breath in my arms, which are wrapped around her shoulders, I put her down and wipe my mouth. A tiny trickle of blood had been dribbling down my chin. I am embarrassed, but Bryce tells me not to worry. "Everyone's first kill is always messy," he explains. "You are actually quite neat; I had blood all over me when I was a newborn."

I do not know what that means, so I ask him.

Bryce sits beside me and explains everything. A newborn, he tells me, is the phrase for someone who has recently been turned into a vampire. The fire, he explains, is the thirst that every vampire feels when they are thirsty. Newborns are thirstier than an older vampire, and are also angrier and more prone to killing. It is because of this, Bryce warns me, that the Volturi is often asked to step in and destroy the newborns.

"What are the Volturi?" I ask, a little nervously.

"They are the law enforcers of our world," Bryce says. His eyes are dark and brooding. He does not like the Volturi, I am sure.

"Vampires have laws?"

"Only one," Bryce answers darkly.

"What is it?"

"That we keep our existence a secret from the humans."

Oh. It is too obvious, really.

I lead the conversation away from the Volturi. He obviously dislikes talking about them. "How long is someone a newborn?" I ask.

Bryce considers. "It's different for every vampire," he finally answers. "An average vampire is a newborn for about a year, and then their strength starts to fade. They grow less angry, less intense, and their eyes darken to crimson or burgundy."

Bryce stands up. "Come on," he says, taking my hand in his again, "We must get going."

I still have many questions I want to ask, but Bryce has done enough. He has answered the basic questions, and he has told me everything I need to know to survive in this odd world.

I do not ask where we are going. Such things do not matter. I am immortal, and nothing can damage me, except for another vampire. Bryce tells me that if I keep my mouth shut and do not kill aimlessly or expose myself to the humans, I will make it through the first year of being a newborn vampire.

**XxX**

Indeed, Bryce does not take us to just one place.

We travel, all around the world. Before I was a vampire, the only countries I had been in were Australia and America. We visit France, but only briefly. It is a sunny country and we only move through it at night. It is a dangerous country for a vampire to be in, but I enjoy it. I like the Eiffel Tower and how it towers into the sky. Many humans still walk the streets at night.

It is easy to hunt. The fire in my throat does not burn for long.

Yet we have to continue on. The next country we visit is England. It is much colder here, though it does not bother us. It rains a lot, and the humans here are all pale, but not as pale as us. We can move around in the daytime if the sun is not out, for if we were to enter into the sun, our skin would glitter like diamonds. Bryce tells me this, as we observe a few humans hurry home, eager to get out of the icy rain. We kill a few humans, and then we have to move on. The humans are not stupid. They know someone dangerous is out there.

If only they knew.

**XxX**

As we cross oceans and continents, Bryce tells me about his life. He is five hundred years old, he tells me, and he was an artist when he was human. He was fascinated by the pagan way of life, and he often painted pictures relating to them. In those days, pagans were seen as witches, and many pagans were, always wrongly, burned alive, because the villagers thought they were going to curse them. Bryce himself was not a pagan, but he had many friends who were. One of his closest friends, a girl named Katrina, was burned at the young age of seventeen. She had been seen grounding herbs and burning incense, and naturally the villagers thought she was concocting a spell. Bryce was made to watch her burn, as he stood there, in the crowd. It destroyed him to see his friend die, in front of his eyes. It killed him that he could do nothing. Shortly after Katrina's death, he tried to hang himself. He very nearly succeeded. A vampire whose name was Gloria removed the rope from his neck and changed him.

"That's all I can remember about my human life, though," he tells me, sounding a little sad. I feel like weeping, but I find that I cannot. Even though my face screws up in agony for Bryce, no tears fill my eyes. "It is a human, thing, to cry," Bryce whispers, stroking my cheek gently. "We are not human."

He does not say any more. He does not have to.

In return, I tell him about my human life. He is fascinated by the fact that I was a professional thief. "I thought there was something different about you," he admits. I give him a questioning look. "When I first met you, in that cafe."

"Oh," I mumble.

Bryce smiles at me. "I wondered why a young woman was in a cafe, wearing all black and those odd sunglasses."

I laugh. "Well, I was on a job."

"Yes, I know," he says, frowning suddenly. "I heard you shoot that woman, and the dog."

Now it is my turn to touch his cheek. "I did not want to," I assure him. "I do not like killing."

"It does not matter anymore," Bryce says, lacing his fingers with mine. "That was your human life. This is your new life now."

**XxX**

It is odd, but I feel my feelings for Bryce changing, as he leads me around the world. I think I am beginning to love him. Certainly, he feels the same way. I know this because he is often touching me; my cheek, and my hand.

We never meet another vampire on our travels, although I do smell them from a distance. They do not approach us, and we do not approach them. This is good, I think. I do not want to meet another vampire while I am still a newborn. From what Bryce has told me, newborns are often looked down upon, as clumsy and stupid. Perhaps it is true.

But, with Bryce at my side, I am more careful than most newborns.

It is not easy.

Sometimes I must go a few days without feeding, and my throat feels like it is searing. My eyes darken as the days go by, fading from ruby, to burgundy, to coal black. My throat hurts most at these times. I grow irritable, and I shout at Bryce unnecessarily. He takes it in his stride, though, reasoning that if he did want to put up with this, he could simply kill me.

**XxX**

It is in Argentina that I cannot put up with it anymore; I lash out, in broad daylight, and murder five humans. I feed greedily, the blood warm and dripping. By the time I have finished with them, I am satisfied. I am a hunter; a cheetah, roaming the jungle, and the humans are my antelopes.

More humans scream. I glance up from the last human, whose throat has been ripped open.

I snarl at them, sounding very much like a feral animal. The humans scream some more.

Bryce grabs my arm and screams at me to stop. I struggle for a bit, and very nearly escape his grasp, but Bryce holds firm. "No, Anastasia!" He screams. "You have done enough!" He grips me tighter, drawing me to his chest, so that I cannot move. I snarl and spit viciously. The humans flee. Bryce holds me, until I calm down a little.

"We must finish the job, otherwise the Volturi may step in at some point," he says, releasing me.

I am almost weeping. "I am sorry, Bryce," I sob. They are dry sobs, my new body not capable of producing tears.

Bryce cups my face in his hands. "I am not angry," he tells me, his face not far from mine. "We must catch up to the humans."

And so we do. We corner them in a park, and open their veins. We do not feed; I am full, and Bryce says he is as well, though I do not know if he is being entirely truthful; his eyes are noticeably darker. They are not black, not yet.

We bury the humans under a stream; Bryce tells me that the police rarely look under running water. Then we hurry out of there, our hoods on our jumpers yanked over our heads, the tip of the hood covering the top half of our faces.

It is lucky that we got away with that. Bryce tells me that if I had done that in Italy, I would be dead already.

I do not ask why it is more dangerous in Italy than Argentina, because I already know. That is where the Volturi must reside.

I feel a prickle of fear every time I hear the name mentioned now, even though I have never met them or anything like that.

Hopefully, I will never have to meet them.

That night, I am restless.

"Anastasia," I hear Bryce say. I ignore him and pace around our motel room, chewing my lip. It does not bleed; I do not bleed anymore. "Anastasia," Bryce says again. I ignore him again, staring out the window now; it is a starry night. The stars wink cheekily at me from their haven in the night sky. The full moon shines down on me; my skin appears to glow but does not sparkle.

I hear Bryce get up from his bed and walk swiftly to where I stand; on the outside balcony. He puts a hand on my shoulder. For some reason, this irritates me, and I am already furious at myself for breaking the rules. "What?" I snap at him, focusing my blood-red eyes on him. I have a powerful stare, even for a vampire. Humans quail under it, and flowers wilt under it, if I stare at them for too long. Animals flee from me, though they seem to like Bryce quite a bit.

"I understand you are angry," he says gently, trying to comfort, but it is not working.

"I am more than angry," I tell him, balling my hands into tight fists. Bryce waits for me to elaborate, but I do not.

He already knows.

**XxX**

The next day, at dawn, we leave Argentina, sprinting. We are fast sprinters, about the same speed of a race car. It is not safe to be here anymore. Bryce holds my hand tightly as we run, and again, I think of how he must feel about me. I do love him, but not that way. I love him like a brother, nothing more. That much I have figured out about myself.

I wonder again how Bryce knows my name, but I do not ask. It is something that he probably just knows.

**XxX**

We arrive in Germany some time later. It is twilight when we arrive on the outskirts. Frankfurt is a nice enough city, I think. We find a 5-star motel and break down one of the motels doors. Bryce is upon the surprised human at once; she was blow-drying her hair. He grabs her and immediately opens up her neck. He drains her dry, and then carelessly tosses her limp body on the bed.

So, he was lying. He was thirsty when I murdered those five humans. He just resisted.

Such is in his nature.

This also annoys me.

Now I know what Bryce meant that newborns are easily irritated. I sigh.

"What's wrong, Anastasia?" Bryce asks, crossing the room to me, and slinging an arm over my shoulders.

"I do not like being a newborn," I answer.

"No-one does," Bryce says sympathetically. "Do not worry, Anastasia, you are doing quite well for a newborn."

"But still not great," I mutter. Bryce says nothing. What is there for him to say? I broke the rules. "Why do you put up with me?" I ask him. "I am a newborn. I am clumsy, and quite useless."

Bryce considers me for a moment. "I will tell you," he says. "But you must have an open mind. Do not interrupt me."

I nod seriously and he begins his tale:

"I have watched you for some time, Anastasia. Ever since you were born, I had my eye on you. Why? Because, ever since I first saw you, I knew there was something different about you. I do not know what; I only knew that I would find out if I turned you into a vampire, and for that, I would have to wait for a few decades. Before my eyes, you changed from a naughty schoolgirl to a professional thief. You killed often, you knew your weapons, and you knew self-defence. You were beautiful, corrupt, and probably one of the most dangerous women in Australia, and then America. But, you were perfect in my eyes. I knew you would make an intriguing immortal. So when I saw that man hurting you, I-I just snapped. I twisted his neck and he died in my hands. And then, I saved you. I waited beside you for three days, my throat burning more and more, until it became almost unbearable. But I did it."

"Why?" I ask him, even though he asked me not to interrupt.

His answer is simple: "Because I love you."

I stare at him in shock. Even though I knew this was coming, it is still a shock to hear.

"No," I gasp. Bryce nods. This is too much. I shrug out of his one-armed grip and dash for the bathroom, even though I have no need for that anymore. I just need some time alone.

"I understand, Anastasia," Bryce calls softly through the door.

I sit on the edge of the delicate ornate bathtub, and glance around. It is an all-white bathroom. There is a shower with a glass cubicle surrounding it. The sink and mirror are huge, much too large for any human. Speaking of humans, there is a human male staring at me. He is shirtless.

"Hello," I say quietly. He stares back at me. He does not know he is staring at his killer. What he sees is a beautiful woman with ruby-red eyes, the eyes of the devil.

"You are a vampire," he finally manages.

I neither confirm nor deny.

The human just stares at me dumbly. It annoys me greatly. I launch myself off the edge of the bath and bare my teeth in a ferocious snarl; my hands lash out and grip his shoulders. He screams. I slap him, using only a fraction of my strength. Even so, I nearly take his head off. He is not unconscious, however. He is still perfectly aware of what is happening. "You are a vampire," he says again.

"Yes," I say, a faint snarl still in my voice.

"You are going to kill me," he says dreamily.

I consider. I do not know why, but I do.

There is something in my mind that lurks, something powerful. I feel it has something to do with my unusually powerful stare. "That depends," I say.

"On what?"

I stare hard into his eyes. He stares back, not flinching. My red eyes bore into his own, and I feel words form on my lips. "I am not a vampire," I whisper. "I did not kill your wife. I mean you no harm. If anyone asks, I do not exist. When this day is over, I do not exist. I am a shadow. A ghost, and you will pay me no attention whatsoever."

His eyes grow wide. "You are not a vampire," he mumbles. "You did not kill my wife. You mean me no harm. If anyone asks, you do not exist. When today is over, you do not exist. You are a shadow. You are a ghost, and I will pay no attention to you at all." Then he turns away, and starts to enter the shower.

I am shocked. What did I just do? I shout at him, but he does not turn around or even react.

I did something incredible just then. I erased his memory that I barged in on him starting to get ready for a shower. According to him, I do not exist.

I walk back out, to Bryce. He is waiting for me, a slight smile on his face. "Bryce," I say. "I am sorry." I lunge at him, hands outstretched. He is slow to react. My hands close around his throat, and I begin to squeeze.

He is shocked. "Anastasia, what...?"

"DON'T CALL ME ANASTASIA!" I shout, snarling and spitting angrily. I know I fed the day before, but I am empty once more. My eyes are as black as coal, Bryce realises, much too late. I start to twist his neck. He kicks out at me with his legs; I dodge them easily. My throat rages and that angers me even more. The scent of the human set me off; I did not realise at the time, because I was using my mysterious power, but I know now. I yank his head to the side.

Bryce's eyes are wide. "Anastasia, no!" he gasps. "Don't-"

Too late.

My teeth tear into his neck and I rip out his throat. He gives a high-pitched keen of pain, but I do not stop. I keep tearing, until he is lifeless and unmoving underneath me. I toss his body on the bed, beside the human woman's, and snarl at the ceiling. I hear the humans in the room above ours exclaim and wonder whether there is a dog in our room. I march back into the bathroom, and murder the human in there. I open up his veins, and I drain him dry.

The fire flickers and then dies in my throat. I place the human in the shower and draw the curtains around his lifeless body. I then slam the bathroom door, and see what I have just done.

"Oh, God," I say weakly, falling to my knees.

I have killed Bryce.

My only friend.

He loved me, and I killed him. I crawl over to his broken body and clutch him to my breast, my shoulders heaving with sobs.


	4. Chapter 4

How long I kneel there, clutching Bryce's lifeless body, which is limp, like a doll, I do not know. My body shudders uncontrollably, and my face screws up in agony. Bryce was right. Newborns are stupid, reckless, and more than anything, uncontrollable. I am living proof of all three of these things. I press my face into Bryce's mangled shoulder, and think of everything he has done for me-stopping me from murdering all those humans in Argentina, saving me from the mugger when I was a weak, frail human, taking me all over the world, putting up with me when he did not have to...He was full of goodness, and he tried to project that into me. He failed, of this I am sure. I am evil. Truly from hell, the devil's daughter. Even when I was human, I was by no means a nice person. I killed often, and I stole from innocent people.

There is a knock at the door. "Hello?" a man's voice floats in to me from the other side. It is the manager, of this I am sure, and he has come to talk to the pair of humans that Bryce and I just killed. I do not answer. I cannot. After all, the manager expects to hear another man's voice answer, and, being female, I would arouse his suspicion. That cannot happen. The man tries again. "Mr. Finn?" He knocks again, more impatient than concerned. The man has been drinking; I can smell the alcohol. I put him at about forty-five years of age, and rather short and plump. He is an arrogant man; I can tell this just by hearing his voice. He knocks again, slamming his fist into the door. If he is not careful, he will break that fist. Perhaps I will break it for him. Then I remember that I am holding onto Bryce's mangled body, and I feel like weeping once again. "If you do not answer me," the man rumbles, "I will break down this door!" Let him. I lift Bryce's body and place it back onto the bed, next to the human males' wife. I pull the doona over their bodies, pulling it up to their noses. Then I go to answer the door.

As I open the door, trying hard not to rip it off the hinges, I see that I was right. The man is as short as he is wide. It is a wonder he can fit through the doorway. He has no hair at all; his head shines like a beacon. His eyes are shrewd and calculating; he expects to get his way. He has grease stains all over his too-small shirt, and he is holding a beer bottle in one fat fist. His eyes widen, however, when he sees me, a young woman in her early twenties, with tangled shoulder-length brown hair and shocking crimson eyes. I wear a black leather jacket over a tight-fitting black top, and black pants. "You called?" I ask, making my voice silky and slightly seductive. He is not sure how to react. "I-I-"he stutters, taking a hasty step back. He sees that I am beautiful, but he also senses that I may be dangerous. I give him a questioning look, leaning against the edge of the doorway. Inviting, warm red floods his cheeks. The fire rears its ugly head and sears angrily at my throat. I swallow tightly, wanting to murder this human, but not wanting to as well. "Yes, well..." It takes a moment for the fat human to manage to get the words out: "Some people that are staying in the room above you have told me that they heard some snarling. Like an angry dog or something. Now, I know you know it is against the rules to keep animals in this motel. If there is an animal in there, would you hand it over? I shall take it to the pound, and if you are lucky, you will get it back." I do not like this man. Not at all. "An animal?" I inquire lightly, making my eyes go wide with surprise. "There is no animal in here." "Then what was that noise that those people heard?" he asks, suspicious. "Noise? There was no noise," I say, as I stare deep into his bloodshot, beady eyes. "There wasn't any noise," he mutters dully. I think for a bit. "And there is no pretty girl with red eyes," I tell him. "Understand?" "Yes," he whispers. "There is no pretty girl with red eyes." I break our eye contact and lay a pale hand on his shoulder. He regards me with dull, confused eyes. "I think the people who have the animal are next door to me," I say, pointing to the white door on my left, which is number sixteen."Okay," he mumbles, turning away, "Sorry for bothering you, miss." "No problem," I say, smiling at him. For a moment, he is dazzled by my beauty. Then, with a ghost of a smile of his own, he waddles over to the door I pointed to and begins hammering on their door. I hurry back inside my own room and search through the humans' bags, ripping apart a few before I find what I am looking for: two jumbo-size garbage bags. I stuff Bryce into them. I plan to bury him somewhere isolated, perhaps under running water. There is nothing I can do about the humans; I leave their bodies where they are, hoping it will be some time before anyone comes calling. I glance outside, to see if it is safe for me to drag Bryce's body out, and I see no-one. The only humans awake are the fat manager, now safely inside next doors', and the angry and confused humans that stay in there.

I drag Bryce's body outside, and lift him effortlessly over my shoulder. There is still shock, and horror at what I did to him, but it is far away, in the back of my mind. I do not have time to grieve for him at the moment. I have more important things to do, such as trying to navigate my way through Frankfurt to find an isolated place, in the dead of night, carrying two garbage bags that contain a dead body. It would cross the humans as quite strange if they were to see me. I slowly walk through the car park, my eyes and ears alert. I spy a shiny black Jag, in the corner of the car park. It is brand new, and looks incredibly fast. I am on it in an instant. Glancing around carefully, I hear that the owner is currently in bed at the moment, with his wife. They are both asleep; I can tell that much. I punch through one of the car windows, and quickly unlock the door before the alarm can go off. I am in the car and down the street before anyone can realize that I have stolen somebody's car.

There is not much traffic at this time of night. I am lucky. My car glides almost silently down the German streets, and I marvel at how easy it is to steal. Being a vampire, I do not have to worry about people trying to shoot me, or being caught by anyone. I am a killing machine, and I love being one. I love how I can snap a human's neck with my bare hands, and feel my teeth sink into them and feel their life slowly drain away, into me. I love that I can run very fast, about as fast as this car I am now sitting in. The only reason I am not running at the moment is because I have to remain inconspicuous, at least while I have a body with me. It would look rather odd if someone were to see me, wandering down the street at this time of night, when everyone should be asleep, carrying a body with me. Yes, I think, that would not go down well. Especially if the police were to see me. I do not understand a word of German, and, if I am to stay here, that seems a serious flaw for me to have; I do, however, understand French, and some Italian. Considering I have been only in English-speaking countries when I was human, I had never felt the need to learn a language. But, when Bryce and I stayed in France for a few days, I picked up a few odd phrases here and there. I am not sure where I learnt Italian, though; perhaps I DID learn it when I was human, but I do not remember.

I find an isolated spot; it is in a dark forest, where mist drifts, blocking out the sound of my car engine roaring, and the headlights that would normally light anyone up like a torch. The mist and the darkness do not bother me; I can see perfectly well in these conditions. I suspect that I could still be able to see if I was in a blizzard, or at the bottom of the ocean, where it is pitch-black and strange sea creatures dwell. I have no need to breathe, I still do, of course, but I do not need to. If I don't however, it cuts off my sense of smell. I open the car door carefully. I do not know why, but I feel like someone is watching me. It is not a human; otherwise I would be able to smell them. It is an odd smell, and I do not recognise it. I swallow nervously, a pure human reaction that I have not yet forgotten, and reach into the backseat for Bryce's body. I hurriedly take it out, and then I hurry into the darkness, not at all sure where I am going; but I am confident I will find my car again. I pause by a lake, the water appearing to be jet-black and like glass; it does not move, not at all. All the animals are asleep, hidden away, yet I know exactly where they all are. I carefully slide Bryce out of the garbage bags and start to ease him into the water. Then I abruptly stop, and peer into the darkness. I cannot see anything, but I am sure I heard somebody whisper. "Who's there?" I shout. There is no answer. I shrug and continue sliding Bryce into the water. For a moment, he appears to float on the surface, like some bizarre kind of cork. But then his body sinks down, into his watery grave. Once again, I feel like weeping. But I keep this emotion on the inside and simply look out at the spot where his body had been a moment before, my expression perfectly neutral.

I find my car without any problems. It is still running, its engine humming quietly. I place the garbage bags beside me, in the passenger seat, close the door, and once again, I am off. But I am left with a problem: I do not know where to go now. Should I return to the motel? I think not. Should the police come, they will discover the humans' bodies and will undoubtedly want to question everyone. So I settle for driving around with no real purpose; I stick to the back roads, which no-one seems to use anymore, and I cut across people's properties more than once, to avoid being seen. It is light now, and my skin sparkles like diamonds. It is very beautiful to look at, but is definitely a problem. I must get some sunglasses, and some gloves, to cover up my very obvious hands and face. I stop at a gas station and steal some fly sunglasses that are almost exactly the same as my old ones. I pick out some gloves that go past my elbow and pull the sleeves of my jacket over the top of them. I also pick out a black cap, for good measure. I miss my caps. I tuck my brown hair underneath it; now I could be either a boy or a girl. I am in my car once again and streak away, not bothering to get petrol because the man running the cash register has only just realized that I have stolen some of his merchandise. I hear his angry shouts, and I smile, because I cannot understand a word of what he is saying.

My car breaks down half a mile from a city. I leave it where it is. I will find another car. I troop along the side of the road, my head and my shoulders slumped, the perfect figure of sadness. Sure enough, an elderly woman pulls up to me after only ten minutes and asks something in German. I shrug and indicate that I cannot understand her. The woman immediately switches to English. "Do you need any help?" she asks, a heavy accent making her words seems twisted. "Yes, please," I say innocently, in such a way that does not reveal what gender I am. "Did your car break down?" the woman asks, looking at me with such concern that I feel bad about wanting to kill her. My throat is searing, not quite as bad as when I killed Bryce, but dangerously close. My eyes are coal black behind my sunglasses, I am sure. I nod dumbly, as if I am in shock that my car has broken down. I decide that I will not kill this woman. She has a good heart, I see. I will settle for using my strange power on her instead. "Please, hop in and I will drive you to wherever you need to go," she insists, opening the door for me. I hop in, a huge smile plastered on my face. "Thank you so much for this," I say, doing my seatbelt up and smiling gratefully at the woman. "Oh, please dear, think nothing of it," she smiles. The drive is short. She asks me where I want to go, and I tell her I was heading for the city straight ahead. "I cannot pronounce it," I confess to her, as we enter the outskirts of a city with a name far too long for me to pronounce. The woman smiles. "You're not the first," she chuckles, patting my arm. It is strangely comforting. "Where did you want to be dropped off, anyway?" she asks now. I smile and tell her I don't mind. She drops me off in front of a motel. I thank her and undo my seat belt. This is it. I twist around, too fast for her to see, and I take my sunglasses off and have them in my pocket, just before she starts to speak. I take her face in my hands and stare hard into her eyes. Again, that strange feeling of power washes through me. She stares back at me, her beautiful brown eyes entirely consumed by my black ones. "You did not see a hitchhiker on the side of the road," I say confidently. "You never picked me up. You never met me. I do not exist." The woman's eyes glaze over. "I did not see a hitchhiker on the side of the road," she whispers. "I never offered to pick you up. I never met you. You do not exist." Then her expression clears. I am hidden from her human eyes when this happens. "What...? Why am I here?" I hear her say. Then I am off, into another motel room. I kill the young man in there, sate my thirst, and I sit on the bed. I am not tired; I do not tire anymore. But I am unsettled. I am not sure why. I spend the remainder of the day pacing around my motel room; it is too light for me to venture outside today. My throat starts to burn again, but it is not unbearable.

When it was dark again, I exit the motel room and head out. I decide to go for a walk. I wander around the city, quite aimlessly, when I see a flicker of movement ahead of me. It is a human. A male, about thirty years old, perhaps a little older. I smile. He smells good, and I am thirsty. He has a small girl and a woman with him-obviously his family. They will douse the fire for a few hours. I approach them casually, dressed in jeans, several long, baggy singlet tops, and a long trench coat pulled over the top. The coat is a favourite of mine. It clings to my body nicely. I am still wearing my black converse sneakers that I had when I was human. I need to get another pair. They are ripped and worn, held together by the tiniest of strings. My chocolate-brown hair is hanging loose, brushed and looking quite nice, if I do say so myself. The family is moving slowly, the mother and father holding onto the little girl's hands, as she skips along the path happily. I move closer, my movements swift and silent. The humans will not even hear me coming. I can kill them all, quite easily. I pick up my pace. I am now in arm's reach of the family. The fire burns more furiously than ever, as I notice how the little girl's cheeks are flushed from skipping. Her eyes are bright, and alive with an inner happiness. Her mouth in stretched into a happy smile, even as sweat drips down her forehead. I lash out with my hands, and twist the woman's neck-all the way around. The male human spins around, as he hears the bones in his wife's neck shatter underneath my hands. He begins to scream when I swipe at his neck. My hands lodge in his throat. He gives a gargling scream, and warm, lovely, dripping blood swells from his neck, where my hands are buried. I decide to put out the fire before I deal with the child, who is watching me with a curious expression on her face. She thinks this is a joke, that her parents are faking and will jump up from the ground, laughing, any second now. If only she knew. I finish with the man and I yank my hands from his neck. My hands are covered with blood, but I do not lick them. Not yet. I turn my blood-red eyes on the girl, who seems to realize that this is no joke, and that her parents really are dead. She gives a high-pitched scream of terror and starts to run away. I am on her before she can scream again. She is whimpering, locked in my icy grip. She cannot break free, though she tries many, many times. My arms are like stone. I stroke her head gently. "I am sorry," I say quietly. "But I must douse the fire, and you can help me do it." "You killed my mommy and daddy!" she screams. I clamp a hand over her mouth. "Yes, and I would say I am sorry, but I am not. They helped me, and now you must finish the job. You are a good helper, yes?" I make the girl nod. "Then help me. For your mommy and daddy's sake." And with that, I open up her veins and drink from her. I am right; she does help to douse the fire. Feeling satisfied, I dump the family's bodies in a dumpster. To get rid of the evidence, I pile stacks and stacks of newspapers on top of the bodies. I then light a match and casually toss it into the dumpster. The effect is instantaneous; in seconds, the whole dumpster is a huge fireball, a mass of power and heat that washes over me. I step back; the fire makes me nervous.

I stay in Germany for quite a while; about seven months. I try and kill in isolated places; where the humans there will not be immediately missed. I glide through Germany, stealing things like fresh clothes and cars. I use my gift a few times on humans that happen to see me stealing or feeding. I like using my gift. It makes me feel powerful, in an odd sort of way.

I am in a large shopping mall, during after hours, and I am strolling merrily through a clothing store, picking out some new clothes, when I hear a human shout out. "Hey-is someone in there?!" It is a male, and he is angry. I tense, standing near the t-shirts. I am at the back of the store, and it will take some time for the human to reach me. I will open him up, and I will drain his life away from him. I need to feed soon; my eyes are as black as night, and my throat sears angrily. The man shouts again, this time in German; as if he is hoping that the thief is a native and speaks his language. I smile. He is wrong on both counts. "Who's there?" He tries again. I duck underneath the clothing racks and move closer to the front, where I discover that the man is not alone; he has three security guards with him. They are bulky and slow-moving; rather odd for security guards. The man who has been shouting at me is only about nineteen. He is handsome, with straightened black hair and dazzling green eyes. I may regret killing him. But only a little. There is no time for remorse in this life, not when the fire is nearly always burning. I will have to deal with the security guards first; then, when the leader realises he is alone, then I will kill him. I will draw it out; I am feeling particularly murderous tonight. I will listen to his screams of pain, his begs for mercy, and I will laugh, as I pierce his skin with my fingernails and feel his blood dripping down my hand...

I shake myself out of my insane fantasy. Abstaining from feeding does have its effects; apart from feeling more irritable and thirsty, I sometimes can be quite delirious- I see things that are not there, or I get sucked into my own twisted little fantasies. I prowl closer to the humans, as silent and graceful as a cat. My speed, however, is more like a bullet from a gun; it takes me only seconds to reach the humans. I jump out from under the clothing racks and lash out with my right foot; it connects with the first guards' jaw and removes his head with a pleasing crack. It bounces once, and then rests on the ground. I kick out with my other foot, and crush another guards' chest. His ribs explode under my foot, and he is dead before he hits the ground. I land nimbly on both feet and punch the last guard in the face. His face falls in on itself, and he staggers around even though he is dead, and nearly crashes into the last human, who is staring at me with wide eyes. "Hello," I say pleasantly, smiling coyly, approaching him slowly, carefully. The human is amazed. He sees a stunning young woman who has just murdered three of his colleagues. "I-I-"he stammers, as I grab his shoulders and stare deep into his eyes. I have no intention of using my gift on him. This is just another form of torture I like to use. He is swallowed up by my dangerous black eyes. He sees nothing else, of this I make sure. "Hello," I say again. "H-Hello," he whispers. I stroke his cheek gently, and he shudders, though not in displeasure. I have a very sensual touch, for a vampire. I know this because Bryce told me, almost a year ago, when I was first changed, after I killed that young girl. My touch can be pleasant or torturous, whatever I desire. I lean in close, as if to kiss him. He breathes in my intoxicating scent, and already he is under my spell. Instead of kissing him, I open up his jugular and start to suck at his neck. He sighs in wicked pleasure. To humans, I can make it feel like they are being caressed by my soft, pale fingers, inside and out. I remember Bryce telling me that that is what it feels like to be bitten on the neck by another vampire. Not in the vicious way I did to Bryce: that was pure bloodlust, the true nature of the vampire acting through me. No, only when a vampire finds its 'mate'; its lover. I would not know. I have not found a mate, and I have no intention of finding one.

The memory of Bryce is too much, and I simply snap the human's neck. His eyes go wide, then slack. I do not like remembering Bryce, and his goodness, and how I repaid him. I feed on one of the security guards and grimace; his blood tastes sour. I do not like it. I bury the bodies some time later; and then, I troop back to my motel. It is a different one than the one the elderly woman dropped me off at; I need some change in scenery. It is a rich, snobby place, and I take a liking to it instantly. There are many, many humans in here, and they all smell delicious- a far better meal than the fat security guard I briefly fed upon, which was enough to keep me going. It is late, and the owner of the motel is sound asleep. So I simply break in and discover that the room is empty. That does not bother me; I am not in the mood for killing. That may sound odd, coming from a monster like me, but even I get sick of killing sometimes. It is too easy. There is no real challenge in killing humans, and, more than once, I have used my gift instead. More often these days. Sighing loudly, I lie down on the bed and close my eyes. I am not tired; I cannot sleep.

Time passes. How long, I do not know. Sunlight replaces the darkness and washes over my skin, making it sparkle beautifully. Soon enough, though, the sun is swallowed by the darkness. And the cycle starts again. No humans come calling, for which I am grateful. As the cycle of night and day continues, I feel something changing, deep inside me. It frightens me a little, but still, I do not move from my place on the bed. As sunlight once again lights up my skin, I let my mind go blank.

I sit up with a gasp. There is something different about me, something I cannot imagine. I walk into the bathroom and peer into the mirror. I gasp. My eyes have darkened to a deep burgundy colour, no longer bright crimson. I flex my arms. They are still powerful, of course, but they are not as strong as before. And the fire is not as fierce as before. Realization courses through my veins, and, as I stare at my reflection some more, I start to laugh.

I am no longer a newborn vampire.


	5. Chapter 5

It has been several months since that day in front of the mirror. I have set myself up with a job; I am a shop assistant for a clothing store. The job is boring, but at least I have something to keep myself busy. I have to work during the day, of course, because most stores are not open at night, but this does not bother me; I cover up when walking to work and peel off all the layers as soon as I get inside. I wear eye contacts. They are light blue, and, when I slip them on, my eyes appear to be an odd violet colour. At my lunchbreaks, I am often asked to attend a cafe with the other shop assistants, but I always have an excuse ready. I strongly suspect that this annoys them, but I do not care. Staying inside all day has its good sides-I can organise my wardrobe a hundred times over, there are that many clothes in the store. I have also learnt German; it only took me an hour to memorize everything in the book my boss lent me; I have a photographic memory, you see. I have also set myself up a bank account, under the name Natalie Price. Yes, I still use that name, but I am not attached to it; they are just two words that will last me a couple of decades. I have also bought myself a house; it is huge, and wonderful. I am in the process of restoring it, because when I bought it, it was in ruins. It looks almost perfect now. I enjoy walking through its vast hallways, and leaping up to touch the beautiful ceilings. They are engraved with the most curious patterns-they are in some language, certainly not German, Italian, or English. My favourite room is a particularly large one, with a massive fireplace that is often roaring-I cannot feel the heat, but it is a comfort I like to have. The floor is simple floorboards, but I have placed several gargantuan rugs, in an effort to make it look more homely. There are several large armchairs strewn across this room, along with a few bookcases, already overflowing with books. I like to read. My current favourite is Anne Rices' _Interview with a vampire. _Lestat sounds like someone I would very much like to meet. I often wonder whether he really exists, and Anne Rice based her book on him.

"Excuse me?"

I look up from my magazine. It is a customer, and she is holding two dresses-one is a light pink colour, with red, lacy trim. The other is pale green. "Yes, miss?" I ask, in fluent German. The girl cannot be any older than sixteen, and she flushes. "Well...I was just wondering, which of these would you buy if you were me?" She holds the two dresses out. I consider. Truthfully, I would not buy either. I would rather go naked than wear a dress so horrible. But, then again, I only have tolerance for dark colours, black, for example. "I would buy the pink one," I tell her serenely, carefully marking my page by folding the top corner. I close my magazine. "Really?" the human asks in disbelief. "Yes. Why? Do you not like it?" I wonder why she is holding the dress if she does not like it. The human girl blushes harder, and I have to swallow hard. I may not be a newborn any more, but blood still appeals to me greatly, and it does not help if a human cuts themselves in front of me, or blushes furiously, like this girl is doing right now. "No...I like it. I just, I don't know how I would look in it..." I give her a kind smile. "Why don't you try it on? You can see for yourself that way. The changing rooms are this way," I gently take her arm, and I feel her shudder, very, very slightly. Sometimes I forget that I have an extremely sensual touch, and it often gives humans chills. I have yet to see if it applies to vampires as well. I lead her to the changing rooms, which are, really, just doorless cubicles with a flimsy curtain drawn across where the door should be. I do not like the idea of curtains as door substitutes. I mean, the humans deserve _some_ privacy. "Thank you," the human mumbles, hurrying into the cubicle that is farthest from me. "Let me see what you look like when you are dressed," I call to her. "Yeah...sure," she mutters, barely audible, at least, to human ears.

I lean back and watch the progress of the money-laden humans who walk from store to store, peering into windows. Many females wander into our store at some stage, and I smile. Not many humans can resist our store. It is brightly coloured, nothing like the cafe called Roxannes', where I took my last job as a professional thief and as a human. It is attractive, and the clothes put on display are all beautiful. Our store sells not just for teenage females, but for small children and adults as well. Luckily, I do not have to cater for all these humans; I have several other shop assistants on hand at the moment. "I'm ready!" my customer calls, drawing back the curtain and walking out. I observe her for a moment before I speak, and I choose my words carefully: "What kind of event are you wearing this dress to?" Because I know that this human would never wear something so gaudy of her own free will. The girl grimaces. "A wedding. I'm the flower girl." I nod sympathetically. "Weddings. Aren't they a pain?" The girl groans. "Tell me about it!" I try and smile. "Well, for a flower girl dress, it's not that bad." "So I don't look stupid?" she asks. "Absolutely not!" I exclaim, hoping that the human does not see through my lie. I can be believable when I want to be, though it is to be questioned whether I can lie to others of my kind just as well. The girl pays for the horrible dress and thanks me for helping. I grin and tell her it was nothing. Then I return to my desk, and to my magazine. Someone has spilt coffee on it, I realize, holding it up by a corner. It is falling apart, and is of no use to me now. I go to place it in the bin, but, before it falls in, I notice that today's paper is lying on top. It is in my hands, before the coffee-sodden magazine lands on top of it. I unfold the paper and my eyes widen at the front headline:

_**Spencer speaks no more.**_

Interesting. I read the article. It is about the brutal slaying of a well-known American lawyer, who was visiting Germany to help defend his clients' case. He was found in a local park, with his throat torn out and drained completely of blood. I scan other related articles: _**Death toll on the rise, Young woman found dead in her home, A family of four is killed behind a locked door. **_I almost drop the paper. Why? Because I know what is happening. The humans all think there is some sort of psychopath out there, killing people, and in a way they are right. Only it is no human that is committing these atrocities. It is another vampire, and a newborn, by the looks of it. Normally I wouldn't care, but these murders are so close to where I live, and if this newborn continues to kill and not even bother to get rid of the evidence, the huge coven known as the Volturi may step in. And if they do that, they may very well convict the wrong vampire. _Me. _I must catch up to this young vampire, and explain the rules to them, and then perhaps the killings will stop, and the Volturi will not step in. But there is no guarantee that the newborn will listen. Things may even get violent. If that happens, I will surely die. I remember my good friend Bryce, who was a vampire like me, only he was five hundred years old, and I had no trouble taking him down when I was a newborn. I must be prepared for a fight. I am still a young vampire myself, although not as new as this one, who clearly has no clue what they are doing.

I stand up suddenly, and my boss comes hurrying over. "What's going on, Natalie?" she asks, in English, even though I do understand her language now. "I'm sorry, but I need to leave," I tell her firmly, in such a way that temporarily renders her speechless. "L-leave?" she asks. "But Natalie, _why?" _ "I do not feel well. I will have to take the next few days off, in fact. Do not worry about my pay check, I'll get it later, when I feel...better." My boss swallows my lie easily. "Yes, of course, Natalie," she flutters. "I hope you feel better soon."

"So do I," I mutter, as I take my layers and begin to pull them on.

I have no idea where to start looking for this newborn. I do the obvious thing: I wait until it is dark. I keep myself well hidden, so as to not alarm the young one. I keep my eyes and ears open, waiting for an unfamiliar scent to come wafting my way. The wind is blowing against me, and I can smell _everything_- the sweat of humans that are walking home from work, the smell of numerous animals, as they prepare to settle down for the night, the fumes that are pumped out the backs of cars...that one is a particularly nasty scent. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. Yet I keep all my senses trained and alert; I have a feeling that the newborn is not too far away. I have no idea what I am going to when I encounter the newborn; if they are anything like I was, they will kill and ask questions later. I will try and reason with the; if that does not work, then I will have to flee. I do not wish to die tonight.

Suddenly, I catch the scent of fresh blood. It is coming from the west. I leap out from my hiding spot, which was behind a dumpster. Not very creative, I know, but how many people, vampires and humans alike, will look behind a dumpster? According to my senses, the newborn is not one mile away from me. I am surprised that I did not catch the scent earlier. But I am new to this sort of thing. I hurtle across the road, too fast for the mortals to see anything except for a whitish blur that flickers across the road. If a human had blinked, they would have missed me. Even though I am already on the other side of the road and well on the newborns' tail, cars screech in confusion and slide to a shuddering stop, blocking the road. I swallow back a laugh; humans are so stupid sometimes. The newborn is male, and perhaps a week old, no older than that, judging by how his eyes glow in the darkness; they are a shocking crimson colour; the colour that easily identifies a new vampire. He appears to be only about twelve years of age. My chest aches for the boy and the pain he must have suffered-I was twenty-two when I was changed, and I screamed and shuddered like a baby. Goodness knows what this boy must have gone through. Who, I wonder, would dare to condemn someone at such a young age? The boy is fast, but I am faster. I throw my arms around his waist a split second before I collide with him- a sound like thunder roars when our two bodies smash together.

The boy shouts in surprise and struggles to break free, and he very nearly succeeds. I grit my teeth and growl a warning at him, as I tighten my embrace on him. "Who-who are you?" he cries, struggling and spitting angrily, like an enraged, captured snake. "Stop struggling and I will tell you," I grunt, very aware of the fact that the human couple that the boy had been chasing into this dark alley are now watching us with wide eyes. The boy considers for a moment, and then lies still in my arms. I loosen my hold on him slightly, but still tight enough to hold him, if he tries to trick me. He does not move, so I withdraw my hold on him completely and step back, staring him down with my burgundy eyes. He fidgets and whips his head around at the humans. A loud snarl erupts from his throat, and he points a white finger at the terrified humans. "You are _dead," _he whispers. The human girl screams. I slap the boy, not holding back any of my strength this time. His head snaps back, and he stares at me with wounded eyes. "No," I hiss, my eyes burning into his furiously. My eyes can be like poison when I want them to be. He cowers under my gaze, and I feel smug satisfaction at the fact that my stare can also disarm vampires as well as humans. "You will not have them," I say, my voice poisonous, deadly. "But I _want _them," the boy protests, gesturing to his chest-which is pale, like the rest of him, much more obvious than most vampires because he isn't wearing a shirt. God help him if he has done anything in the sunlight. But I do not believe in God. I have sinned too much to believe in anything, really. "A fire is deep inside me, and I must put it out," he adds, a slight yowl inside his voice. I know how that feels. It is a fierce fire, and will not let up until it is doused-by blood. I make my voice soothing. "I understand how you feel," I say. "But this is not the way to do it." I gesture to the humans, who are both crying weakly, the man propping the girl up. "It's the only way I can think of," the boy insists. I consider. He does not know any better. Whoever changed him did not bother explaining anything to him. "If you kill a human, you must dispose of the body, not leave them where they are," I say gently, placing my hands on his shoulders, trying to comfort him. "Why?" he demands. I glance at the humans; they are hysterical with fear. They are in no condition to do anything that will expose the two of us. "Because the humans start to notice after the first few murders," I tell him. "So?" he sneers. "_So, _if the humans start to notice, you can bet that the Volturi already know. Everything," I try not to shudder at the thought. The Volturi, in fact, probably already know. Hopefully they are debating whether to step in or not. By the way things seem to be going; perhaps they will not have to. The child does not seem unwilling to learn. 'What are a Volturi?" he asks, interested. I sigh and wonder how Bryce, the vampire who changed me, put up with this. It is a pain to explain everything, the meaning of your words.

"The Volturi are the law enforcers of our world," I tell him. "They are a very old, very powerful family who does not take kindly to young vampires such as you breaking the rules. If they knew, they would come and destroy you. You would be dead before you hit the ground. I imagine that the Volturi are very strong. They could rip your head right off." I do not know this though. I have never met the Volturi, and with any luck, I will not have to. "So, they're like cops?" he asks. I nod. "Yes. They are like cops, except a normal cop will not kill you on the spot for breaking the rules. A normal cop will slap you with a fee or perhaps hold you overnight at the station. But these cops, they will rip you apart if they get wind that _you _are the source of all these murders, all this despair." I hope the child does not see through my bluff. I am hoping to scare him into behaving himself. It works. The boy trembles under my hands and struggles to compose himself. "Do you believe me?" I ask him. He nods, throat tight, and I realize he is thirsty. I consider letting him murder these humans, but that idea is quickly dismissed. There have been enough murders here, in Frankfurt. There does not need to be any blood, any more death. I will take the boy outside the city, I decide. He can quench his thirst there. "Then come with me," I suggest. "I will show you how to put out the fire and not attract the attention of these cops that we both fear. There is a way to satisfy yourself, and still remain invisible. You want this, do you not?" The boy nods. "I don't want to die," he says, starting to weep without tears. "I'm only twelve years old." I hug him, very briefly; I hear him breathe in my scent, and he is intoxicated. It does not help that my touch feels, to him, that he is gently being caressed by my fingernails, from the inside out. It is not a bad feeling, I think. Such is the pleasure I can give. "Let me deal with these humans before I take you to feed," I say gently. "Stay here."

He does not move, but watches me with amazed eyes, as I walk over to the humans. I grab the girl first. She lets out a loud scream, and I clap a pale hand over her mouth. "Ssh..." I whisper into her ear. "This will be over quickly. And you will still be alive. Your lover will be too. I give you my word." The man yells in fright, and I kick out and catch him in the jaw. He slumps to the ground, not dead, but merely unconscious. I stare into the girls' eyes. She is a pretty little thing, with waist-length blonde hair, and big brown eyes. "You never saw this boy," I whisper, my will as poisonous as a cobra, "He never chased you down here. There is no girl with burgundy eyes, either. You are not frightened." My lips for some more wet words, deadly. "You did not ever live here in Frankfurt. _Ever." _ The girl nods silently. "I never saw that boy," she says obediently. "He never chased me down here. There is no girl with burgundy eyes. I am not afraid. I never lived here in Frankfurt. Never." I release the girl, and she hurries away, and is soon out of sight. The boy moans longingly. "Patience," I tell him. Then I walk over to the man. I rouse him from his slumber by kicking him in the ribs. I am careful not to snap any of them. He begins to shriek in both terror and surprise, when I lift him up by the hair. He has long hair; it is quite unattractive, actually. He should cut it. "You never saw me and this boy," I say, burning into his eyes, into his brain, using my powerful stare. "We never chased you down here. You are not frightened. And you do not live here in Frankfurt." Like a puppet, he repeats my dangerous words and shambles after his girlfriend when I release him.

The boy is impressed. "How do you do that?" he asks. "I do not know," I admit. "It is a gift I just...had when I was changed. I can erase memories." "Sweet!" the boy says appreciatively. I smile. No-one has ever said that to me about my abnormality. Not all vampires have gifts like mine. Bryce was not gifted, but he said it did not matter; he felt blessed, just having heightened senses, the extra speed, and the potential to live forever. "I wish I had a gift," the boy was saying. "Like, it would be really cool if I could be like a chameleon or something. Yeah. That'd be _sweet." _ I hug him again. He makes me feel good, despite being a monster who feeds off the living. "Yuck!" He shouts, struggling out of my embrace, yet I do not feel rebuffed. I like this boy already. He will make a good partner. Not a romantic partner; just someone to travel with and talk to. "What is your name?" I ask, still smiling. "Toby," he answers. "Well, Toby, how would you like to quench that thirst of yours now?" I ask, very, very pleased with myself. This has gone a lot better than I had expected. "Oh, hell yeah!" he shouts. I laugh and curl my arm over his shoulder. He does not shake it off, but chuckles merrily. We walk up the alleyway together. I wonder about Toby, and whether he can fill the hole Bryce left behind.

As we exit the alleyway, I hear somebody sigh. I whip around, but I see no-one. Yet I could have sworn somebody sighed in disappointment, not two paces away from me. Strange.

The two of us drive far out of the city. I have stolen a black Porsche, and it roars along the empty roads. Toby tells me about his life as a newborn. I do not really want to hear it, but I listen anyway. He remembers walking out of his school one afternoon, when a dark shadow swept down upon him and bit him. He tells me of how the fire burned along his veins, eradicating his weak, human self, and replacing it with the awesome power of a newborn vampire. "It hurt a lot," he tells me now, drumming his fingers on the armrest. I tell him to use less strength; otherwise we will have to run back to Frankfurt. Toby does as I say, but continues to look at me curiously. I raise an eyebrow, wordlessly asking him what it is. He shrugs and turns away, staring out at the night. Our car weaves left and right; I do a couple of circles for Toby's entertainment. He grins and tells me I am awesome. I find an isolated enough place for us to feed; a lonely caravan park. There are only a few humans staying here; that is good. There are fewer witnesses. I park our car a kilometre away. Toby and I exit the car, and I take his hand and tell him that I will help him feed inconspicuously. Together, we run to the caravan park, as fast as race cars. We reach our destination in under a minute. Toby is keen to just rush the humans, but I restrain him. "We have to be careful," I whisper. "We must be silent and swift, and we must clean up after ourselves." Toby makes a face. "I don't like cleaning," he complains. "I don't either, but it is necessary," I say. We observe the caravans, until we see one that contains an old couple. "We will drink from them," I tell him, jerking my head towards them. The humans are sleeping peacefully; not at all aware of the horror that awaits them. We sneak inside their caravan. It is a comfortable enough place, I think. I wave my hand at the old woman, who is snoring loudly. Toby makes a face. "I never drink from old people," he says, much too loud. "Ssh!" I snap, as the old man gives a loud grunt. "Sorry," he whispers. He creeps over to the woman, gliding like a ghost. He opens her up and laps up her blood with great gusto. I make a face. He is much too messy. There is blood everywhere, all over the bed upon which the now-dead woman lies upon, and all over Toby. I now understand what Bryce told me once: _"You are actually quite neat; I had blood all over me when I was a newborn." _I take the old man's hand, and I know that I am doing him a kindness by drinking from him tonight; he is sick, very, very sick. His cancer is eating up his body and is nearly finished its' job; the man, if I left him alone, would be dead by next week. There is nothing any doctor can do for him; he is finished, and it is with a heavy heart that I open him up and sip from his veins. Yet the blood does not satisfy me; the fire flickers and dies for an instant but is back almost at once, screaming in rebellion. When the man is dead, I heave him over my shoulder and tell Toby to do the same with the woman. He does so, his clothes dripping with blood. I will have to make him wash before I take him to my home. We leap out of the window with ease and I bury the bodies under a stream. Toby does not understand my weird logic, and I do not tell him. I will tell him later, however. Before we leave, I order Toby to strip down and wash all the blood off himself. There is nothing I can do about his clothes- I will get him some more tomorrow.

As Toby stands in the water, splashing water on himself, turning the stream pink momentarily, I study him. He is beautiful. He has light brown, short, spiky hair that I imagine is only spiky because it is matted with dried blood. His eyes are bright crimson, brighter than before because he has fed. He is surprisingly well-built for a twelve year old. If he was human, his muscles would be bulging by the age of fifteen, I guess. He notices my scrutiny. "What?" he asks, suddenly self-conscious. "Nothing," I say quickly, busying myself with getting all Toby's clothes together. We must hurry. It is dawn already, and the sunlight is trying to peek through the thick trees and onto us, the vampires. Toby splashes himself a few more times, and sunlight courses over his body, making it sparkle beautifully. I hand him his clothes; he pulls them on, still sopping wet but grateful nevertheless.

We are back in my car before the sun is fully up. Toby drips pink water all over the Porsche's leather interior, but I tell him not to worry. "We have to ditch this car, anyway," I inform him, as we speed away from the caravan park. "Why?' he wonders. "I like this car." I lean over and pat his arm. He shudders delicately. "I do, too," I assure him. "We will steal another one just like this later on." Toby nods. "Where are we going?" he asks. "We are going to my house," I say, my hand still on his arm. "Then I will have to get you something to do while I am at work." "You work?" I nod. Toby seems baffled. "But...doesn't the sun bother you?" "It does," I tell him serenely. "But I cover up to get to work, and then I take all my layers off. You understand." And I can tell he does.

When we reach my house, I usher Toby inside, glancing around surreptitiously. My house is not that isolated; I still have a few neighbours, mainly elderly people who cannot see two inches in front of them without their glasses, but still, I must be careful. I quickly shut the door behind me, praying that no-one saw our momentarily glittering bodies. Toby is awed. "Wow, nice place you've got here," he says. "Thank you," I mumble, crushing the car keys' in my fist; when I open it again, they are nothing but fine dust. I drop it on the floor and sweep it under the rug with my foot. "Can I trust you to stay inside the house while I am at work?" I ask him. Toby shrugs. "There are plenty of books here," I say, gesturing to my many bookshelves. "And I have a TV." "Does it have Foxtel?" he asks, suddenly looking much more enthusiastic. "Yes," I say. "You can watch whatever channel you wish." "Cool!" he cheers. "Just...stay here. In the house. Do not move. I will be back in a few hours. If you are thirsty by then, I will take you hunting. But until then you are not to move from the house. Do you understand?"

Toby nods. "Good," I say. "I do not want to have to chase you all around town." "Okay, okay..."Toby mutters, shifting towards the TV, "I get it. You can go now." I smile to myself, as I bundle myself in my layers. He feels like my own son, almost.


End file.
